Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 28

Rome

The Mint, off the Via Labicana,

Five Days before the Kalends of December, AD236

The die-cutter was so accustomed to the striking-room in the mint, he forgot the effect it could have on others. Fabianus stood transfixed by the noise, the relentless movement, the stifling heat. Most likely, he saw it as an image of hell. Since the arrest of Pontianus, the idea might well be in his mind. The die-cutter had chosen the place precisely because it was hard to be overheard. He waited while Fabianus tried to make sense of it all.

By each small furnace, the slaves laboured in four-man teams. With long iron tongs, the first man took a heated blank disc of metal from the furnace. He placed it on the reverse die, which was secured by a tang to the anvil. Holding its iron collar, the second positioned the obverse die just above. The third swung the hammer. While the noise still rang, the fourth removed the struck coin and put it in a tray. The first took another blank from the furnace. They worked without ceasing, their movements instinctive from endless repetition.

‘More bad news?’ The die-cutter spoke close to Fabianus’ ear.

‘Hippolytus has been arrested. The frumentarii came for him this morning.’

The die-cutter considered this. ‘Then he was not the informer.’

‘It seems not.’

They watched the slaves.

‘Antheros thinks they are just the first,’ Fabianus said.

In the die-cutter’s thoughts were the claws and the scrapers in the cellars of the palace, hard-eyed men wielding them with refined cruelty.

‘Antheros advised me to leave the city. He said to warn you. He thinks they will try to take us all.’

‘Perhaps not.’

Fabianus took his arm. ‘The flesh is weak. Pontianus is an old man. And Hippolytus is an outcast. He has no reason to protect us.’

‘Africanus?’ The die-cutter asked.

‘I came via the library. He is brave, but his links to Mamaea make him a marked man for the creatures of Maximinus.’

A sudden shout, and the rhythm of the nearest team of slaves faltered and broke down. A struck coin had adhered to the upper die. The speed at which they worked meant it had been hammered down on to the next blank. Cursing, the second slave poked the upper die from its sleeve and used a fine chisel to try to pry it and the ruined coin apart. The other three put down their tools and drank from the water butt by their station. The one with the hammer tipped water over his head. It ran down his bare chest.

An overseer walked across and with a look told the slaves to resume.

The die-cutter waited until the noise of the hammer covered his words. ‘The authorities might have more pressing concerns. The plebs have been restless since the money for the shows was cut back. There have been several incidents over the reduced grain dole. Now Maximinus has ordered the temple treasures seized there is talk in the Subura of keeping a vigil at the temples, stopping the soldiers. They say Gallicanus and the other philosopher Senators will lead them.’

Fabianus looked unconvinced. ‘Pontianus would want us to take precautions. He is not a fanatic like Hippolytus. You can come to the country with me.’

The die-cutter managed to smile. ‘I have never left the city in my life.’

‘Antheros told me to take you. I do not command you as though I were someone of authority. I know my limitations. Those who question are doomed. Do not seek notoriety. Come with me.’

‘I was there when they took Pontianus,’ the die-cutter said.

Fabianus released his arm, looked sharply at him.

‘I watched from the other side of the street. The crowd was jeering, baying for blood. Further than my hand, my vision is not good, but my hearing is sharp. Even above the mob, I heard what was said. Pontianus asked the soldiers why they were arresting him. They said they had orders to take all our leaders, all those who were spreading unrest and corrupting the innocent.’

There was suspicion in the face of Fabianus. ‘You did nothing?’

‘I did nothing.’

‘You might not be so fortunate next time.’

‘I will stay here.’

Fabianus nodded. He went to make a gesture. The die-cutter caught his hand. ‘Do not be a fool.’

Fabianus disengaged himself, and turned to go.

Afterwards, the die-cutter returned to his workroom in the courtyard. He sat at his bench in the open air. He picked up his latest design. Work always calmed his mind.

Rome’s latest goddess, Caecilia Paulina, stared back at him. As with Maximinus at the beginning, he had no idea what she really looked like. A hideous old crone, Acilius Glabrio had said unhelpfully. The other two magistrates had been less offensive, but no more informative. It was a sign of the regime’s lack of concern for anything apart from the northern wars that the arrogant young fools had not been replaced when their normal term of office had come to an end.

He had given the late Empress a hairstyle favoured by women of the previous dynasty: clear waves drawn into a bun at the back. On top he had added a modest veil. For her features he had relied on an obviously spurious resemblance to her husband. Throughout the empire, Caecilia Paulina would be remembered for the prominence of her nose and chin.

It was a good piece of work. The peacock, the empty symbol which tradition demanded for the reverse could not occupy his mind. He had stood and watched as Pontianus was arrested. He had lied to Fabianus. He had not done nothing. In his weakness and his fear, he had denied knowing Pontianus. When the mob chanted, the die-cutter had mouthed the words. In the past, other men had done the same. There were names for them. There were names for him.